


pink

by fondleeds



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, i was just inspired and had an urge to write, idk what this is honestly, its kinda angsty?? but not really??, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 15:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10620195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fondleeds/pseuds/fondleeds
Summary: Harry is a rose beneath him, unfurling his first petals, soft and pink and shadowed at the edges, mouth so open and wet against his own, droplets pinging against the pastel bathwater like shiny pearls. Louis finds the petal among his hair, and it feels the same as Harry’s skin, feels delicate and smooth, fragrant and warm. He presses closer, curls over the tub to cup Harry’s jaw gently, searching for the sweet nectar he knows is hidden under the petal of his tongue. He wants to open him up entirely, card his hands through the soft soil that’s settled around their feet and care for every fragile, vulnerable whisper that Harry is breathing into his mouth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hiii, it's been a while, hasn't it?? this is not related to any wips i'm currently writing, and i literally wrote this in an hour because i was feeling very inspired by harry's album cover ((my aesthetic ass is still weeping)) and sooo here's this?? whatever this is?? idk i just felt like posting because i haven't in ages and i know i said i would, but i haven't got anything ready yet that i'm currently working on!! 
> 
> anywaaay i hope u guys like this?? it's like not even 2k words but i just wanted to WRITE so here u go enjoy i love u all (especially u harry u beautiful binch)

The light is soft over Harry’s cheeks.

That’s the first thing Louis picks out when he nudges the bathroom door open, so gentle that it stays blessedly silent from it’s usual creaking, so tentatively that Harry’s eyes don’t flicker open. It’s noon, sun setting down between the trees and pouring dappled, milky reflections through the window, splayed along the tiles. Lavender hits him first, just a hint of springtime hanging onto it’s last breath.

Harry’s chest is shiny, ink on his skin shadowed and blurry as it dips below the tinted water.

“Hey,” Louis whispers. The door closes behind him without a click.

Harry shifts, eyes flicking open, almost translucent where the light hits, like pale, stained glass. There’s something so delicate about the way he blinks, lashes tangled together by fat droplets, his brows mused, hair sticky on his temples. The water laps mutely against his skin when he lifts an arm to brush a loose curl from his eyes, a heady silence draped around them.

“Hey,” Harry says. His voice sounds loud in the quiet.

Louis slips his socks off first, lets his soles touch the cool white tile as he drifts towards the bath. The water is pink, a summer sunset on it’s last breath before the burn of sunlight flares up in ambers and golds. Among it, tiny petals float, some turning shriveled at their outline, giving under the weight of the water. Harry’s fingers drift among them slowly, absently, water baying and moulding under his touch.

His eyelashes look the softest of brown, sweeping steady and slow as he blinks, lips cherry glazed. Nothing about him is sharp here. Here, Louis see’s him in curves and gentle fingertips, a vulnerable haze to his tired eyes, so young-looking with his hair dripping and clumped at the back of his neck.

“I missed you,” Louis says. He settles himself on his knees, reaching a hand out to trace his fingers over Harry’s shoulder, over the Pink Floyd tattoo nestled there. _Light, prism, dispersion_. His skin is warm.

Harry leans into him, like instinct, and Louis lets out a tiny sigh at it, the comfort of touch, of Harry letting him whisper his fingertips over the outline of the ship. He glances up at him, from under his wet lashes, under his messy brows, unplucked. Sunlight dances on one side of his face, pale strips of it that bring a white glow to his temple and the tip of his cheekbone.

“Missed you too,” he says, shifting forward to lean his arms on the edge of the tub, torso stretching, ribs just poking through the delicate skin there. Water slides in droplets along his arms, a soft rhythm as it drips from the tips of his elbows.

“I like this,” Louis says softly, dipping his own fingers into the bathwater, lukewarm. His fingers find a soggy petal, and he rubs it between his thumb and forefinger softly.

“Mm,” Harry leans his cheek against his arm, sleepy. “Felt like doing nothing. I like the flowers.”

“Me too,” Louis says. He tucks the pink petal in his hand among Harry’s hair, letting his fingers linger and watching the way Harry’s eyes flutter shut, butterfly wings as he breathes in deep. Louis rests his fingers among his hair, scratches gently, both of them silent save for the muted sound of the water pressing up close against Harry’s side.

Harry’s breathing is steady, cheek squished against his forearm, the delicate skin of his cheeks so pale compared to the murky shadows of his tattoos, the callus of his fingertips and the defined bones of his hands. Slowly, Louis trails his fingers to Harry’s jaw, thumb pressed up against the hinge of it, stroking in minute little movements, nails still scratching gently at the wispy hair behind his ears.

“Gonna fall asleep and drown if you keep that up,” Harry murmurs, almost sighing the words on a quiet breath instead of speaking. A tiny smile tugs on the corners of his mouth, content, and Louis’ heart warms, thaws like hot coals are brushing over his skin.

Louis pulls his hand away slowly, but Harry whines and reaches for him, loops his long fingers over his wrist gently and places his hand back against his cheek, so that his palm cradles it now. He nuzzles into it, eyes still closed. Louis wants to rest his fingertips so carefully by his eyes, just to see if his eyelashes are as soft as they seem this close up. Harry holds them like that, his hand lined up against Louis’, long fingers overlapping his shorter ones.

“How’re you always so warm?” Louis says. He presses his thumb gently under the cradle of his eye, where his skin is shadowed and bruised, a thin veil of lavender.

“‘M warm on the inside,” is Harry’s reply, muffled against Louis’ palm, finally opening his eyes. His lips are wet, scraping over his skin, peach dusted and soft.

“Yeah?” Louis laughs softly, finally leaning close enough to let their foreheads touch. Harry’s skin is wet against his own, hair leaving thin streaks of water over Louis’ temple.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He reaches his other hand out and guides Louis’ palm to his chest, holding it over his heart, fingers brushing against a sparrow, stretching towards 17black. Louis can feel it, the thump-thump, the pulse of warm blood in a warm body, Harry’s heart beating steady and sure. They’re curled together now, Louis’ elbows folding over the edge of the tub, fingers firm over Harry’s cheek, where Harry’s fingers are curling into his own.

  
“Harry,” Louis says, and it’s a hiccup of breath, noses bumping together, Harry shifting closer, as close as he can.

Their lips brush, but they’re still just breathing, just feeling the warm air settling around them, feeling the warmth of their limbs tangled together. A tiny droplet of water falls from a strand of Harry’s hair and lands on Louis’ cheek, streaking down his face like a dewy tear. Harry brushes it away with his lips, the drag of his mouth barely a kiss, just a gentle touch, to feel.

And finally, when their mouths do meet, when Harry dips towards him and tucks Louis’ bottom lip between his own carefully, all is blessedly quiet, like the world is just for them, just for this moment. Wherever Louis’ hands trail, wherever his fingers spread of curl, Harry follows, fingertips a whisper over the fine bones of Louis’ wrists, holding on, palms encasing. It’s been far too long since they’ve had this, and Louis’ shoulders sag with the weight of it, falling into the touch helplessly.

Harry is a rose beneath him, unfurling his first petals, soft and pink and shadowed at the edges, mouth so open and wet against his own, droplets pinging against the pastel bathwater like shiny pearls. Louis finds the petal among his hair, and it feels the same as Harry’s skin, feels delicate and smooth, fragrant and warm. He presses closer, curls over the tub to cup Harry’s jaw gently, searching for the sweet nectar he knows is hidden under the petal of his tongue. He wants to open him up entirely, card his hands through the soft soil that’s settled around their feet and care for every fragile, vulnerable whisper that Harry is breathing into his mouth.

He finds the thorns in Harry’s brows, the furrow of them when they press so close their noses give to one another, when they press so close that Louis knows the exact expression of Harry’s face with his eyes closed. Finally, he feels the whisper of his lashes, feels Harry’s shaking breath when he tries to clamber closer, clinging to Louis’ hands so desperately despite how soft their lips fold, how careful their tongues touch.

Louis slides both his hands over Harry’s jaw, tilts his head back and soothes his thumbs back and forth along the line of it, nails stroking among the baby hairs around his neck. Harry makes a quiet sound in his throat, and there, with the sag of his shoulders and the sigh that he breathes between Louis’ lips, Louis finds the honeysuckle sweetness. Harry’s fingers stroke over his wrists, the backs of his hands, before they settle between the slots of Louis’ own.

“Love you,” Harry whispers, quick and swallowed straight up by a kiss. Louis fumbles their mouths together, breath stuttered and short.

“Love you, too,” the words are smudged against Harry’s bottom lip, his chin, and then their lips are just brushing again, just feeling skin while they breathe. When he opens his eyes, Harry is staring up at him, wide open and vulnerable, cheeks flushed the same colour as the bathwater, this tinged peachy pink that matches his lips.

It still scares Louis, how much he feels for him, how this boy makes him feel so soft, like his skin is puddy, ready to be taken apart. It’s almost as though his feelings are petals ready to be plucked one by one, he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not, except he hears Harry’s voice on loop, stuck on _he-loves-me, he-loves-me, he-loves-me_ , as he pries the petals away ever so gently, kissing the sweet nectar from them.

“Stay,” Harry whispers, voice tightly coiled like there are fingers pressed up against the curves of his throat. When he speaks, the words flutter over Louis’ lips, Harry’s thumbs pressing tight over the golden nub of his wrist. “Please.”

“Always,” Louis drops a firm kiss to his lips, turns his palms to tangle their fingers together properly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” Harry says thickly, kissing him softly, opening his mouth up again and catching his bottom lip.

The bathwater is cold, the petals sunken and drifting aimlessly with the waters heartbeat, thumping along with their own as their lips press in whispers. The noon light lets it glow and ebb. It gives Harry an aura of bronze, gives his hair golden ribbons. All is soft and quiet, Louis’ mind settled, his heart in rhythm with Harry’s, his fingertips grazing the pink flush on his soft cheeks, content and warm.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading loves, feel free to drop by on tumblr and say hi or leave a comment xxxxxx hopefully you'll see me here again soon


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